I wrote the following shortly after my grandfather passed away in 2007. It describes a fictitious scenario. I wrote it, never intending to share it. I forgot about it until I found it again recently. Given the current hostility around immigration, it felt right to share.
We can talk about immigration in the context of economics, or politics, or the rhetoric of us vs. them. But within that journey, if we forget that families immigrate for a better future, and that we voluntarily break our hearts by giving away what’s precious to us for that better future, then we’ll have betrayed our humanity.
Hi everyone,
Thank you all for taking this time to be here today. My grandfather surely would’ve scolded me for troubling you all, especially in America, where it takes forever to drive anywhere. Nevertheless, I am sure that he appreciates your presence.
Most of you, if not all of you, have never met him. Most of you have probably never heard me talk about him. All of us have grandparents, but for many immigrants like ourselves, they’re only far away illusions, barred from us by not only physical distance, but by language, and culture barriers. The little that we do know about them is pieced together from fuzzy memories growing up, nursery rhymes etched in our brains sang to us in another language, and our own experiences, of struggling to, failing to converse with them using simple childish phrases that we barely remember.
I’m sure you’re asking yourselves why I’ve organized this little ceremony, or, memorial I should say, for a man that you’ve never met and who I barely knew.
My grandfather passed away on December 18th, 2007. It has been a couple of months now since his passing, but I can’t seem to put him to rest. Not yet.
To be perfectly honest (and I hate using that phrase because you should always be honest), I was never close with my grandfather. In fact, I disliked him very much as a teenager because I have always felt that he favored my brother more, and boys in general. As a young child growing up, the concept that my brother was favored more simply because he is a boy confused me. No matter how much trouble he got in, regardless of how many tanks and army men he drew on my grandparents’ white walls with his colorful permanent markers, and no matter how unreasonable he was 99.9% of the time, my grandfather always protected him.
When my grandfather died, my whole family took a trip to Taiwan to be at his funeral. Amidst the cultural differences and all the burial traditions, this short trip made me learn more about him than I ever did in the past 23 years. I met a lot of people who were devastated by his passing. I was touched in a way that I never imagined. Even though I never felt direct love from this man that I called my grandfather, who gave birth to my own mother, I felt his presence through the people that I had met.
I guess that’s the point of this short gathering today. I wanted to share with you all what a great man he was, and how proud I am to be one of his many grandchildren. He certainly was not perfect. But at least I know that he was kind, compassionate, and selfless.
Aside from honoring him, I also want to share, or rather, encourage you all to not give up on trying to connect with those who should be close to you, yet are so far away. Both physically, and mentally. Grandparents, even parents. It took me 23 years but I think I finally understand who my grandfather is. It’s ok if the only thing that you can do is sit side by side with your grandparents and watch variety shows that you hardly understand. It’s ok if you can only hold their hand and massage it softly to give them some comfort as they stay bedridden. It’s ok if you only caress their face as they call you by an entirely different name that your family has given up so long ago.
Keep on searching.
One day, I hope that, unlike me, you’ll be able to find that love before it’s too late.
